Begin Again
by BanishedOne
Summary: Most countries came to accept that no human could truly predict precisely when the world would end. Most accepted that mortality was a human trait. But it is at the end that they come to discover the true nature of plotted chaos as it ensnares them, and they must either fight until their world breaks apart, or join hands to ensure the ultimate survival of their people.


::

The patter of the rain on the window made it difficult for the body to awaken when the mind was so set on dreaming instead. However, the insistent sunshine peering down on the nation's peacefully resting features served to rouse his consciousness, and his curiosity.

And then, with some passing vision of significance that came with the vivid light shining through his window accompanied by the wind's howl and the raindrops pelting the pane, Italy opened his eyes.

He gazed up through the window, up into the weeping sky, the foreboding black of the heavy hanging clouds, and the vibrant golden cloak of the morning sun being silenced for good behind them. (Not that the newly wakened nation was aware that it would really be 'for good'.) He gazed up, and felt his heart sinking in his chest as he pulled himself from bed, padding groggily to the window for a better look.

The last morning on Earth. Italy's mind was completely unaware, yet the plight of his aching heart told him that something was amiss. He reassured himself, however. Who greets the morning or the day to follow by assuming this will be the last day they have to live on their beautiful planet? As the shuffling sheets forewarned the happily ignorant nation that Germany was now waking up, he hid the silly feelings of apprehension with a warm, pleasant smile, and turned away from the window as the last ray of sunshine was hidden behind the storm clouds.

Germany sat upright in bed, the sheets falling away from his bare, robust chest, and he ran a single hand through his mussed blonde hair, pushing it back away from his face as he flexed his broad shoulders in a stretch before finally casting a bleary, crystal blue stare in Italy's direction, somehow suspicious that the other nation was already awake.

"Vhat are doink' avake already?," came the deep but otherwise calm rumble of Germany's voice.

"Ah! It'sa' nothing!," Italy replied, absolutely filled to the brim with sunshine and joy. It was much too early for that kind of happiness, in Germany's opinion, but then again.. when was an appropriate time for Italy's brand of never-ending cheer?

"Ja, vell, better hurry up and get ready, since you're up."

"Right!"

::

* * *

::

'...wake up...'

The sound of a woman's voice echoed from somewhere deep and indescribable. It was as though the wind had forged itself a tongue of reeds and willows as it quietly whispered through the gardens, between the creaky old crevices of the door frames, and decorative tapestries as they gently fluttered against the walls.

'Wake up,' the woman's voice called more distinctly, so that the sweet sound filtered audibly, perceivable, into the sleeping elder country's mind, though it didn't quite wake him.

The sheets of China's bed drew slowly back, leaving him tucking his legs as closely to his body as possible, until finally the slightest touch of a hand pressed against his tightly curled back; it was now that the nation shot up in his bed, his hands flying instinctively into some defensive posture of some ancient fighting style.

After the startled country took a look around his bedroom, and found nobody in sight that could have been responsible for the perceived physical contact, he pondered whether he'd been jarred by a grand shift in the Earth's Qi, or if the Feng Shui in his house was off somehow, causing this odd disturbance of his rest, until..

'..I know you can hear me..'

"Who is that?," China spoke up, incredibly inquisitive despite the fact that he was responding to a disembodied voice. It was almost as though he didn't expect any reply, and was moreso wondering if he'd begun to go senile. He hadn't skipped over any of his ancient health practices recently, so he was sure that his mind should have still been as sharp as it was in his youth.

'...muquin...'

At hearing the woman's voice speak in return, the wise, old nation felt himself very surprisingly dumbfounded; there was no hesitation in the woman's quiet tone or question that the voice had answered China firmly, and he curled his legs beneath him in thought as he pondered this answer, repeating it to himself as though it would help his mind process its significance. "Mother?"

::

* * *

::

_Tap, tap, tap._

This was the sound of the blade of Japan's knife gently tapping the cutting board as he diced up ingredients for the bento he was preparing. As he hurried his efforts to get his lunch ready, he chastised himself in his mind; he was normally so careful, so scheduled, yet today he was running behind.

The calming, and quietly rhythmic tap of his cutting was interrupted by the very sudden, very loud sound of a car honking just outside the window above his kitchen counter. This sound came as a jolting surprise because the window was cracked for fresh air, allowing the sound to be heard much more clearly, and also because the alleyway outside the window was very narrow, and cars hardly accessed it.

Startled by the noise, Japan's body reacted in a jolt of surprise, and he hissed in pain as his hand slipped, and the finely sharpened edge of his knife nicked his thumb. Laying the knife down, he cast an aggravated stare out the window, only now catching sight of a funeral hearse pulling down the alley, surely to access the secluded graveyard at the end of the way. *Quickly, he tucked his thumbs inside his palms, hiding them as he moved over to his kitchen sink in order to rinse away the blood from his hand. (1)

However, as the usually graceful nation made to walk the very slight distance between his cutting counter and his kitchen sink, he found himself suddenly stumbling, keeping himself from toppling to the floor by narrowly grabbing the edge of the counter in order to keep himself upright.

Seeking the source of his momentary lack of balance, Japan's cool, dark eyes peered down at his feet, noticing that the strap on one of his sandals had broken mid-step, so that the bottom of the shoe had bent backward at an awkward angle. His normally neutral expression set itself into a soft grimace as he kicked the broken shoe from his foot and righted himself.

By the time the worried nation rinsed the crimson smear from his thumb, the cut had healed and he felt no more pain, but still.. The omens were wracking themselves up this morning, and if his presence wasn't required at one of those all-important world conferences, he'd be happier to simply seclude himself in his home for the day.

::

* * *

::

The corridors seemed dark and abandoned, but they were ever so creaky, too creaky in fact; it was a sure sign that Belarus was likely lurking about, probably having invited herself over and was sneaking around for whatever reason. Russia was certain he'd heard her petite footfalls pattering quietly down the halls, because no matter how slight and soft her gait, the floors moaned and groaned from age beneath everybody's feet, not that many people other than Russia walked on them lately.

Russia placed his large suitcase beside the front door as he quietly chuckled to himself. Bela probably thought he didn't know she was here, and would attempt to surprise him and offer to walk with him to the airport where he'd be catching his flight. It was very specifically planned so that he'd arrive at his destination at the same time as China, and would therefor grab the opportunity to catch a ride with the other nation to the designated meeting place. (China wasn't aware yet, however.)

*(2)"Let's take a seat before the journey," Russia uttered pleasantly to himself, though audibly enough for any possible companion to make note of; it was common for him to sit for a single minute before leaving the house, as it was meant to promote a safe journey. As well, he typically found himself wondering if he forgot to pack something important at this time, though on this particular morning his announcement was also intended to draw Belarus out of hiding. When she didn't show herself, the man's mind was suddenly occupied with his astonishment at Belarus actually not being present, when he'd been so sure!

"Oh well..," the nation casually shrugged off his mistake, though he wouldn't dare admit to himself that it was slightly unnerving that Belarus hadn't dropped by to see him off, and potentially talk him out of going.. But he was used to the empty house, he supposed.

With his suitcase in one hand, the smiling nation locked his front door with the other, then turned on heel and began down the brick pathway that led to the sidewalk. While his gloved hand gestured to tuck his keys into his coat pocket, however, his fingers brushed over the flask that was always safely hidden in his pocket, and he noticed that it was awfully light.. Potentially empty.

Stopping so quickly that his heel made an oddly violent scuffing noise against the walkway, he turned back in the direction of his front door in indecision, biting his lip as he pondered a new dilemma. He considered it unlucky to go back home in order to retrieve something before completing his business, but if he didn't go back.. He'd have to face the long flight without a drink, and that was unacceptable. He maintained his smiling face, despite this, placing his bag down and digging his keys back out of his pocket. It was easy enough to remedy his mistake, so he wouldn't let these sorts of mishaps get to him!

After carefully filling his flask with the usual drink of choice, Russia stopped himself before a mirror that hung in his hallway, and he stood before it, looking himself in the eye with a pleasant smile adorning his features; this was in order to break the bad luck that came with returning home. He was determined not to allow any negative forces to accompany him on his journey today, no matter what!

Once again the smiling nation locked up his front door, and quickly returned to where he'd left his suitcase, and picked it up so that he could hurry to the airport; his delays had put him in something of a rush and now he'd have to move quickly to catch the right flight if he wanted to surprise China. Regardless, Russia's mood was untarnished by these silly delays, and he smiled to himself, even as clouds hung low in the sky and promised to spill a new layer of snow down over his home.

And then, the nation swore he could feel a steady tremor beneath his feet, as though his land were trembling from the cold, and again he came to a very sudden halt, as though to be sure of what he felt. As he stood, he felt nothing more and was beginning to think he'd simply been mistaken about yet another silly thing. (Though these odd tremors would have explained the creakiness of his floors that apparently hadn't been due to Belarus sneaking about.)

Russia hadn't pushed himself far enough into doubt, however, that he had begun to walk again, and as he stood just a short distance from his house, a heavy curtain of white descended from the black clouds above, and a bell began to toll nearby.

Violet eyes, in apprehension, turned toward the clock tower that housed the chiming bell as it rang, noticing that it wasn't any appropriate time assigned for any bell to be ringing, yet the bell just kept moaning out, echoing loudly against the blanketed sky and the snowy streets.

::

* * *

::

It was a brilliant day, really. The sun seemed more golden and vibrant than ever, and the breeze was very slight, just enough to be pleasant. This was the only reason that England wasn't made to feel entirely irate when the train he'd been expecting America and Canada to arrive on brought about not even a glimpse of his former colonies.

"They're late," he sighed to himself. Nevertheless, it was too nice a day for him to lose all patience and leave the ones he'd promised to meet to find their own way; he wasn't that heartless, after all, it could have been delays at the airport that had them running behind schedule.

The waiting nation shifted his weight on his feet, his legs already growing stiff from the time he'd spent stationary, and he resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest and grumble like a sour old man over this entire ordeal; it wasn't that bad.

It was the distant, hoarse sound of some incredibly vocal crows that drew the waiting country's emerald eyes to the sky; he looked up before the source of the noise came into his range of vision, but sure enough, a fleeing flock of black birds hastily beat their ebony wings above, streaking noisily across the sky, barking in anger or fear, or whatever other emotional description human beings gave to the unpleasant sound of the crow's call.

In itself, this wasn't terribly unusual. It was the fact that the wind picked up almost immediately as the birds passed above that made the occurrence a tad curious. A torrential gust of wind blew up from seemingly nowhere, as if exhaled from the pores of the Earth itself, causing the waiting country's jacket to flap wildly about, and his blonde hair to be tousled violently; it even felt as though the wind sucked the breath right out of the unsuspecting country, and pushed him a step or two forward against his will.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the wind dulled back down to a slight breeze, taking with it the loving caress of golden sunlight. Above, a merciless shroud of stormy black rolled itself across the sky so rapidly that it looked to be chasing the tails of the fleeing crows, hoping to consume them like some never-ending beast of pure darkness. It's gaping jaws hungrily sucked away the sun, bringing in its wake a downpour of rain so fierce and sudden that the noise of it pelting the ground seemed more of a roar than the thunder that followed.

"..that's very odd," England commented to himself, his voice quiet and laden with concern, though as the now darkened sky wept upon him, his concern quickly turned into annoyance at being caught without an umbrella. He'd clearly heard the weather report sunshine all day long, so he was entirely unamused.

But, the darkened shroud of the sky was not the only thing that would unexpectedly come to hover over the waiting country's head; yet another shadow was suddenly drawn over the agitated Englishman, though this was one that offered some semblance of shelter from the rain that had already more than thoroughly soaked him. Over the relentless patter of the pouring rain against the waterproof fabric, England still clearly heard a voice purring out a most smooth and pleasant greeting.

"Salut, Angleterre."

Surprised, but not really all that shocked to suddenly see France standing closely by his side, sharing in the small bubble of shelter offered by a single umbrella, England reacted in a manner that was perhaps a bit more mild than usual, or casual at the very least. (He was honestly a bit glad, but he wouldn't dare to come out and just say such a thing.)

"When did you get here?," England asked as he turned to face France, his voice incredibly calm despite the cold droplets of water falling from rebellious spikes in his blonde hair.

Equally casual was the Frenchman's reply, his tone ever sweet and velvet, even in describing the mundane. "I arrived unusually early, so I decided to take a walk around the park across from the station, smoke a cigarette or two, chat with some of the locals, and I had planned to catch a cab until I noticed you over here."

"So," England began, giving the other nation a scornful look to match his unimpressed tone, "you were off flirting?"

As though he were entirely unbothered, and in fact amused by the younger nation's response, France softly laughed in reply before donning a smug sort of grin, cooing words of pure mockery. "Vous jaloux?"

England needed not a single moment to consider his own reply; he scoffed almost immediately, regarding the other man with pure aversion, and he uttered a single word, "hardly." He certainly wasn't jealous that his long-time rival went gallivanting about in a constant search for romantic endeavors, and just observing the man in question, there was even less to be jealous of. He looked like he'd rolled out of his bed this very morning, and was sporting his wavy, golden locks tied messily up in what was surely the most minimal effort in preparing himself, as well as some garishly colorful silk scarf, all in some attempt to look flashy in his formal wear, though it was all just horribly mismatched and tasteless. Yet here France stood, thinking himself splendid and ravishing, even in what he must have assumed was perfect disarray. (Or so, this was England's opinion on the matter.)

And so it became a better option to simply change the subject. Turning his attention to the trendy-looking and colorfully-patterned shelter that was France's umbrella, England furrowed his brow in minute annoyance that somehow another nation had been more prepared in his own home. He communicated this in a tone that expressed his opinion quite clearly, though he feigned curiosity for now.

"How the bloody hell did you manage to have the foresight to bring an umbrella?"

Once more, the elder nation chuckled in amusement, but he answered this time in a tone that rather spoke his fondness, despite the rain. "Is it really so surprising? I generally expect the constant weeping sky, because you're always in such a sour mood. It's fitting, no?"

When England gave the Frenchman's comment little more than an irritated scoff, France went on to further conversation, speaking up in innocent curiosity. "Are you waiting on Alfred and Matthew?"

"Yes," the shorter male grumbled, "yes I am."

Not that the older nation was unable to tell this from his companion's tone, but they were certain to be late for the meeting now, as Alfred and Matthew were clearly behind schedule. "They seem to be running late," France observed, slithering one arm along the Englishman's side, placing a hand on his hip to pull him ever nearer beneath the shelter of his umbrella. "I was tempted to let you stand here helpless for a bit longer, but watching you sulk in the rain was just too much."

With his hand straying just a bit further, finding its way to the small of the younger nation's back, the older male leaned his head downward, touching his nose to his companion and rival's dampened, blonde locks, nuzzling him as one might a helpless, abandoned kitten, which England responded to with very similar, feral agitation.

"Stop that," England hissed in insistence, though his complaint lacked any real aggressive edge, despite how he pushed the older man gently back. "Here, let me hold the umbrella," he offered, putting out his hand to take the object mentioned.

"Huuh?," the Frenchman uttered in confusion, "What ever for?"

"Well, I'm sure your arm is getting tired," the Englishman stated plainly, turning his emerald eyes in the direction of the rail where he soon expected the train to pull along, but more so to avoid looking the taller male in the face. "I suppose it's the least I can do since you came along and saved me from the rain," he stated with a 'hmph.'

"Oh?," came the Frenchman's voice, soft and intrigued. He delicately tucked the handle of the umbrella into the younger male's hand, sliding his fingers against the other man's in a slow, deliberate motion. "Is that really it? ..or did you just like the idea of letting me have my hands free?"

The hand that was lingering on the younger nation's back tugged him nearer once more, while the Frenchman's other hand delicately clasped England's wrist, tugging the younger man's hand from his chest, slowly testing the Englishman's resolve, breaking through his barrier ever so gingerly.

When at last the two men stood flush together, face to face, England gave his rival nation a bitter stare that plainly said, 'piss off', though he dared not utter such a thing, if only because he wanted to maintain his only means of shelter as the rain pelted the ground around them. France released the younger man's arm after bringing it to lay harmlessly by his side, then he drew his own hand up to the younger nation's visage, caressing and tracing the curve of England's cheek with his fingertips .

Ducking in, ever nearer, the Frenchman's lips came to rest against the shorter man's forehead, and in a slow, methodical manner, the elder nation continued the physical contact, fondly nuzzling his most darling rival. Quietly, he managed to utter, "Tu me manques, Angleterre..," his voice sweetly gentle, tremulous and delicate in genuine sincerity.

With annoyance that was steadily breaking down, the younger nation sighed, but still replied, "now is hardly the time for that," as he was certain that he heard the distinct sound of a train quickly coming down the track. England raised his hand back to France's chest, letting the touch remain there for one passing moment, only firm enough to feel the elder nation's heartbeat before he finally pressed France back, and turned his shoulder toward the older nation, choosing again to face the track as the train approached.

As the train pulled into the station, the wind caused both waiting nations' hair to flutter in the smooth sound of the brakes bringing the train to a stop for one silent second. A bell rang, the doors opened, and people lined out of the car, crowding the landing whereas it had been empty moments previous. It didn't take long before the two nations were greeted by the predictably over-exuberant callings of America.

"Yo!," America called as he spotted England and France waiting. He seemed to walk a bit on his toes, otherwise blocked from other movement due to the fact that he was carrying his own luggage as well as Canada's, flaunting his superhuman strength to everybody nearby, while Canada walked close to his brother, shoulder-to-shoulder with him as they, too, shared an umbrella.

"Oh look, they expected your place to be a mess of constant rain as well. I guess you're the only one who doesn't know your own weather," France teased.

"You're a right bastard," England uttered in retort.

"I'm only teasing!," the older male assured his companion in a lighthearted sort of tone, though his voice returned to quiet seriousness as he used the last moments of privacy to gossip, " ..so, is it just me, or does it seem like there's something going on between our boys?"

"Hm? Whatever do you mean?," England questioned, curious.

"Ahh, I was just observing," the older man gestured to America and Canada as he spoke, "they're walking so close, and they seem so comfortable to be doing so."

"Ever the romantic," England sighed, "Well, I'm sure if they had anything they wanted to share with you, they would."

"Is that your way of avoiding telling me something you might know?," France asked with a certain slyness to his tone.

"What?," England interjected, as though confused but also growing irritated, "are you daft? Would you just be quiet!"

"Hey dudes! What's up?!," America declared as he came to stand before the two waiting, whereas Canada politely smiled and lifted his hand in greeting.

"I'll tell you what is up," the Englishman sternly answered, his tone rather bitter as he did so, "actually, it was up quite a while ago, and that is the time in which I can tolerate your lack of punctuality. After I was kind enough to offer you a ride, you left me waiting for you in the rain."

"Bro', don't look at me! Mattie slept in, as usual!," America hastily blamed the quiet boy at his side, and Canada in turn made it all too obvious that this was the truth by turning his eyes away in embarrassment, and speaking up in quiet apology, "sorry."

"Yes, well, regardless, I'm quite tired of waiting around. Can we carry on now?" Here, England turned around, and began toward the parking lot. He took France's umbrella as though he'd forgotten he even had it, but it mattered very little, because France migrated to stand under Canada's umbrella, greeting the boy with a kiss to his cheeks, then as Canada followed after England, France remained at Canada's side, casually chatting.

"So," he began, leaning in close to the younger nation, "..you and America..vous baise?"

"Quoi?!," Canada answered in surprise, laughing softly to himself, "Vous etes un pervers!"

"Je suis curieux!," France answered casually, laughing right along in a jovial manner.

"What are you guys talkin' about?," America spoke up, turning his sky-blue eyes back in the direction of Canada and France, having tucked himself mostly under the umbrella that England was presently holding.

"Ahh, don't worry about it!," France smiled and batted his hand dismissively at the younger nation.

"All of you save the chit chat at least until we're out of the rain," England insisted as he unlocked his car, opening the trunk first to allow America to place some of the luggage he was carrying inside, before each of them found their way into the vehicle.

::

* * *

::

_Boom. Boom. Boom; _This noise softly pounded in England's temples, a headache having set in that he'd assumed was from having to constantly deal with the other tedious members of the makeshift sort of 'family' the foursome formed together.

He had his foot rested a bit more heavily on the acceleration pedal than what he was typically comfortable with, but since it seemed that all four of them were bound to run horribly late, he had no choice. (Though France had attempted to reassure him in saying the meeting couldn't start with all four of them absent.)

France was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, window cracked and a cigarette in hand. He was able to get by with this because the smoke was easily sucked from the cabin through the crack due to the speed in which they were traveling, otherwise, England would be more tempted to complain.

America and Canada were sharing the backseat, though both were a bit squished against the doors by the fact that only one of the large suitcases fit into the trunk, and now one was stuck between them. It didn't really seem to bother either of them, though; Canada quietly sat, comfortable enough, while America was distracted from the situation by his own rambling about all the movies he'd seen recently, speaking over the noise of the cracked window.

England, with his headache steadily worsening, could have lived without France's smoking, the noisy open window, and definitely without America's obnoxious voice. "That's great, Alfred," he hissed in a way that clearly expressed that he actually didn't care, "why don't you just sit back and tell Matthew about your over-the-top films. We really don't care."

"Matt's already seen them!," he groaned in complaint, "we saw em' all together."

France, as he listened, turned to look a bit over his shoulder, into the backseat, blue eyes connecting with Canada's, the twinkle within all too obvious, but in the case that it wasn't, he smirked knowingly.

Flustered, and feeling his face begin to flush at how stupidly obvious his fellow North American nation made the true nature of their relationship, Canada looked away from France, choosing to pretend he was staring out the window, letting his forehead rest against the cool glass. However, he was given little time to check out the rainy scenery before the vehicle was suddenly jarred, and his forehead bounced and bumped against the glass a bit harshly.

"Ow," he uttered, rubbing at his forehead.

"You okay?," America asked, concern clear in his voice as he leaned forward to look around the bag between himself and Canada.

"Yeah," Canada reassured, smiling softly as his eyes met America's own, "I've been checked* harder," he declared with a quiet laugh.

Nodding, America turned his attention from Canada to England, snickering before speaking up in playful mockery, "Geez, Arthur, your little car really can't take a tiny bit of wind, can it?"

"Oh shut up, Alfred," the older nation growled in annoyance, driving with one hand while trying to soothe his head with the other. But the aggravation of dealing with America wasn't nearly as immense presently, and he found that the younger nation was relatively easy to ignore, because England's worry over another matter was growing.

While the rainstorm had grown incredibly violent in a short period of time, much the same as his headache, he knew what having his car battered by wind and rain felt like, and from the way the car trembled, he could tell this wasn't actually the case. As the vehicle rattled against the wet pavement once again, England spoke up in a soft, worried tone, "I... I don't think that is wind."

A moment of strained silence followed, all of the other nations present made curious by England's ominous and unnerved tone. Each waited patiently for the elaboration that was sure to come, but even as England opened his mouth to utter the words, 'I believe this is an Earthquake,' the words were never spoken. These words were stolen from him by a violent jarring, a shiver in the very Earth that shook the vehicle mercilessly.

With the pavement seeming to stretch and bend, and the car bouncing like a child's plaything, each wheel bounding up from the road independently from one another, England found himself immediately struggling to maintain control of the vehicle. His foot depressed the brake pedal, but the automobile was already far too deep in the clutches of chaos to be stopped.

The soaked, quivering pavement offered no decent traction for the car and instead of stopping, it skidded out of control, bounding like a ball down a sloped street or any small, insignificant item atop a vibrating surface.

All four nations struggled to ground themselves inside the shuddering vehicle, disoriented and surprised. Then, without warning, the Earth before the group stole away their chance to simply hold on and 'sit tight', the ground seeming to rip apart like paper being shredded. The road was slashed, a great chasm opening up as though to suck in the tiny morsel that the vehicle was in comparison. The car had begun to rotate in its crash course, its tires skidding against the road, and there was absolutely no means by which to stop its demise as it rapidly bounded and spun toward the massive tear in the Earth's surface.

"Good God!," England's voice hollered out over the chaos, quick thought not escaping him in this dire circumstance, "get out of the car!," he yelled, his hand already on the handle of his door, while his other hand dove for France's arm, clasping tightly to the other male without any need for thought.

England gave a great shove against his door, so that it was flung wide open, and he leapt from the car with France in tow, doubtless that they might be scraped up on the pavement, but aware that falling to the depths would be a much worse fate.

The two elder nations struck the pavement, their bodies rolling off the road from the sudden shift in speed. England's fingers were able to grasp onto the unearthed roots of a fallen tree, and he brought himself to a stop, whereas France rolled a bit further. The younger of the two pulled himself up in immediate concern for his fellow country, finding that France was a little tousled, but otherwise fine.

America had just as easily kicked open his door, jumping from the car with some relative grace; as he fell toward the pavement, he did so face-first, catching himself on gloved palms, the inertia giving him enough spring to land on his feet, though he stumbled slightly and had to straighten his glasses.

But the true reason for America's skillful exit was less out of concern for his own welfare. Immediately, his eyes sought out his brother, finding no trace of Canada nearby. Instead, America's gaze was shifted to the car as it skidded toward the tear in the Earth, bound to fall forever until it crashed to pieces below. But the Hell-bound car was not the subject of America's attention so much as the sight of Matthew still stuck within. The younger nation had managed to unbuckle himself, but was struggling to crawl over the massive suitcase that blocked his exit

"Oh no, no, Matthew!," France called out as he and Arthur both watched in horror, helpless.

But Alfred F. Jones would be damned if he just watched as his brother was dragged down. Frantically, he ran after the sideways car as its wheels marred the cracked pavement with tar-black stripes. Leaping, arm extended as the car tipped over the edge of the cliff, America reached for any grip he could manage. As he hit the ground at the edge of the chasm, the American's fingertips grazed the window of the open backseat door that he'd leaped from moments prior. He tightened his fingers in an attempt to hold on, the glass shattering under his determined grasp, tearing into the black leather of his gloved hand, and though the car was hung in suspension over the side of the cliff, it had stopped, dangling with only America's one arm holding it up. Alfred's other hand was pushing, clawing for a grip on the crumbling pavement just before the pit. There was no question that he had the strength to hold up the small vehicle, but the car's weight still threatened to pull him over the edge as well if he couldn't maintain some grip, something to keep him rooted.

Hurriedly, England and France ran to America, the two having been holding their breath in the tenseness of the last few moments, their minds filled with doubt that the American had enough time to stop the car, and even now, it was still way too close to be sure. Yet, seeing some hope still remained, the kind of hope that only a fool like Alfred Jones could manage to hold onto, they both grabbed onto the younger nation, pulling him back to offer him some sort of anchor.

Certain that he could hold on long enough for Canada to crawl up, America smiled down at his frightened brother, who'd gotten buried beneath their luggage when the car turned sideways. "I've got you," he said in a slightly strained voice, but with enough confidence to act as reassurance, "climb up, Matthew.. Quickly."

Canada nodded his head and quickly did as he was instructed, shoving the heavy suitcase off of himself and into the front seat, while trying to find enough footing to climb out from the back seat, while also not trying to stand on the glass of the window beneath him, nor shift the car enough for America to drop it.

The Canadian's heart was pounding, his entire frame trembling; he could see the near-endless drop that waited to consume him if he didn't climb up quickly, and.. even with his regenerative abilities, he wasn't sure he'd survive such a fall. Easily enough, Canada was able to pull himself up, though, despite the immediate peril he was in, it only took a moment for him to notice the trickle of crimson along the frame of the car door from his elder brother's hand. For one reason or another, this hastened him much more than worrying for himself.

As Canada pulled himself straight up and out of the car, he reached for the edge of the cliffside and hoisted himself up enough that his upper body was pressed to the cracked pavement.

"I'm out, Alfred, you can let go," the Canadian spoke as he clawed his way up.

Just as he was told, America's fingers unfurled, releasing their grip on the car, and the vehicle dropped, twisting in air and smacking the side of the cliff, then bouncing off of it, dragging a shower of gravel and dirt down as it fell.

Once the car was allowed to fall, France released America in favor of aiding Canada in climbing the rest of the way up, pulling him to his feet and hugging him tightly in relief, babbling something in his own tongue more frantically than even the Canadian could understand.

England pulled America to his feet, noticing the younger nation's injured hand with concern, "Here, let me see that," he uttered in a stern, but worried tone. The torn glove was pulled from America's hand, the younger nation wincing like a child, only now, after the damage was done. After getting a good look at the younger nation's palm, England winced a bit himself as well.

A few shards of glass had been deeply embedded into the American's hand, and though England tried insistently to aid his former colony, America stubbornly pulled his hand away, not wanting the Englishman to touch the wound at all.

In the end, America managed to ease the shards from his wounded palm himself, biting his lip all the while, though once the glass was removed, the wound easily closed itself.

"Good show, chap.." Reluctantly, England praised his former colony, knowing that, this time, America deserved it. It was unlikely that Canada would have survived the fall, and as such was true, America had saved his life.

Canada said nothing. After he managed to shake France off of him, he tightly wrapped his arms around his older brother in gratitude; the American, though he'd been unusually shy about public displays of affection in the past, returned the embrace.

England decidedly took a few steps away from his two former colonies to give them some space, and dug one hand into his pocket for his cell phone, his mind going back to business with relentless focus despite how shaken he was from the day's events. His plan was to call one of the other nations bound for the conference, and excuse himself as well as the other three in his company from the meeting, due to this disastrous occurrence. He was also very curious to see what the news would surely be saying about this unusual event, concerned over how much damage had been done.

However, as the Englishman's phone lit up, he found the screen a fuzzy, flickering blur. He attempted to dial a number anyway, but instead of a dial tone, the phone's only response was a harsh mechanical growl.

"Something is wrong with my phone," he spoke out in an irritated tone, though in a way that clearly sought aid from one of the other nations present.

France and America both responded by fishing through their own pockets and taking out their phones as well, just to find that they, too, were exactly the same.

"Same, dude.. Mine's shot, too," America grumbled, vacant of his usual cheer.

"My phone seems to be as well," France chimed in, echoing the dismay of his fellow countries.

"..W-...What is that?," Matthew whispered against Alfred's shoulder, a kind of quiet alarm to his voice that captured everybody's attention. The Canadian's blue-violet eyes were the only pair turned in the opposite direction from the other three nations, and they were gazing upward, mixed between confusion and horror. France and England quickly turned in the direction Canada had been facing as he shifted himself from America's grasp, allowing his brother to refocus his attention as well.

What the four nations saw as they faced the endless stretch of sky to their back was a distinct white streak of smoke, like a cut through the rain clouds, attached to a large object, plummeting down, down, down..

"It's a plane..," America murmured in a quiet, solemn voice. To his experience, seeing a plane falling had never been a sign of anything good to come. What followed was an affirmation that the future, whatever it held, would be dark.

One plane in the distance quickly became three, three falling planes, three distinct streaks straight down from the heavens. And as the resounding noise of the crashes echoed across the empty valley, the metal hulls crunching into debris, jet fuel exploding into great clouds that reached upward, a suddenly innumerable amount of planes toppled from the sky above, like falling stars.

Quietly, England reached slowly over, grasping France's hand, comforting him, comforting himself. Both of the two elder countries had long ago learned that nobody knew when the world would end.. And that was why a disaster such as this, on such a mundane day, chilled them to the bone, though England, for one, tried to tell himself that he was jumping to conclusions.

"This isn't the end, is it?," England whispered ever so quietly, leaning over to France as he did so, as though protecting his former colonies from such a grim inquiry.

France said nothing... but his grip on England's hand tightened.

* * *

::

tbc

::

* * *

*(1); _If a funeral hearse drives past, you must hide your thumb in a fist. This is because the Japanese word for thumb literally translates as "parent-finger" and hiding it is considered protection for your parent. If you don't, your parent will die_

*(2); _"Let's take a seat before the journey." This is a Russian omen for a safe journey. Everyone in the house has to sit somewhere for a minute. This omen, incidentally, is very useful, because it helps people to calm down after the chaos and remember whether they have forgotten to pack anything. Incidentally, going back to the house is a bad omen, a portent of bad luck. So if a Russian discovers after leaving the house that he has forgotten something, he will first decide whether it is something he really needs, and if it is, he will go back, but will make a point of looking himself in the eye in a mirror. This is another trick of the trade to deceive an evil omen._


End file.
